


Madness Is Catching

by fauxpromises



Series: A Madness Most Discreet [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Male Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxpromises/pseuds/fauxpromises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all, he already had long known from his Ma that his father was someone with an unwavering affection for her.</p><p>He really, really hoped some of that affection might have pity on a kid who had spent the better part of his childhood being called a bastard by the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Stop fidgetin' so much! Jesus.”

The raccoon under his arm continued to squirm, nearly compromising his grip on the thing. Still, the Scout wasn't quite willing to hold it with both arms and risk it getting at his chest. He didn't really savor the idea of going to the Medic for rabies shots, after all.

Well, at least toting the animal along had bought him passage into RED territory for the time being. And he didn't have to carry his burden much further at least, since he had nearly made it to the Sniper's van located out in the farther reaches of the area. Sure enough he spotted his father—unsurprisingly surrounded by smoke—relaxing in a collapsible chair beside his teammate.

And yet...using the F-word, even in his own mind, made his guts feel odd. He wondered if that would go away in time, or if that was a positive or negative feeling.

The Sniper seemed to notice his approach first—or at least was the first to acknowledge him. The Australian glanced up from the old cans he had been practicing his shot on, set up adjacent to himself and his parked van. Battlefield instincts lingered into the evening, and the Scout still in his BLU uniform bristled at the other man's gaze.

But that gaze was merely baffled, and the Scout didn't quite understand for a moment why it wasn't hostile instead. Only then did he remember the flea-bitten animal he carried with him.

“D'ya mind me askin' why Lieutenant Bites is makin' a house call tonight?” the Sniper asked in a rather teasing tone, going back to his shooting practice. “I thought we told Soldier to keep his zoo to himself.”

“Actually, this is General Sprinkles,” the younger man corrected him dryly. “If he lives up to his name, I guess I'm lucky it _ain't_ Lieutenant Bites.”

He could feel the Spy examining him quietly, a smirk already on his face. In a way he couldn't quite fathom, that caused some feeling of relief.

“I was under the impression they were _all_ named Lieutenant Bites, really.”

“Your Soldier said he's named after sprinkles 'cause that's what he eats.” A bit of a crease was in his forehead. “And I had to take 'em with me as proof of _diplomatic intentions_. In other words, the guy's fuckin' crazy and made me take his fuckin' raccoon or I couldn't come over here.”

“I guess he likes you, considering you don't appear to be horribly mauled,” the Spy shrugged, tossing the remnants of his cigarette to the sand.

“Eh, he ain't vicious, I don't think. Maybe that's why he outranks the other one.” He paused, just a little irritated that he was giving actual thought to rodent politics. “But I actually didn't show up to talk about raccoons if y'can believe that.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that.” It was the marksman that spoke up this time, shooting his teammate a look that even the Scout could identify as conspiratorial. He set his gun gently down beside his chair as he stood. “Well, gonna go make some coffee.”

A slightly disconcerted expression had come into the Spy's face. “Wait—Mundy—”

“You two have a nice time,” he spoke cheerfully as he climbed into the back of the van, the door closing with a snap behind him.

Something was _not_ right here.

“Whoa, what the _fuck_ does he know?”

The Spy visibly cringed. “More than he should, through a series of very unfortunate happenings.”

“ _As in?_ ”

“Something to the effect of a punch to the face when he mouthed off about your mother,” he responded flatly, brushing at his suit in a clear gesture of distaste. “Some explanation was eventually owed, given the entire situation was, well—”

“Your fault to begin with?”

General Sprinkles was placed quite gently down on the ground as the Scout usurped the Sniper's former chair. He wasn't actually as angry about it as he could have been, but hell if he wasn't going to wring some guilt out of the man.

“In a roundabout way, maybe, but that's beside the point. Why did you risk both of our jobs coming out here?”

The look on the Spy's face was surprisingly concerned, and for a moment the BLU mercenary almost regretted his decision. He hadn't expected much warmth from the man, certainly not after the level of aggression between them on the battlefield. But he did have some expectation of being able to exploit their connection for at least a little bit of empathy, especially now that all of the pieces had fallen into place.

After all, he already had long known from his Ma that his father was someone with an unwavering affection for her. Even for all the time he'd thought this mystery person to be dead, missing, or worse, he found the thought comforting that his parents were people who cared for each other. He'd overheard the neighbors screaming and throwing things at each other often enough to be thankful for that.

He really, _really_ hoped some of that affection might have pity on a kid who had spent the better part of his childhood being called a bastard by the rest of the world.

“Well,” the Bostonian started slowly, dragging the word out overmuch. “Y' _might_ be kinda pissed at me if I tell'ya but I feel like it'd probably cause more shit if I _didn't_ , and then Ma—”

The stare he got in return shortened the story considerably.

“I _kinda_ told the other guys about you, and us, and what happened.”

He wasn't sure if he imagined the slight eye twitch the Spy gave him in response. Maybe he did, because the bewilderment he had seen was clearly already turned to aggravation and a very cold and very deadly one-word response.

“Elaborate.”

The Scout rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I mean, it just don't seem fair for me to be the only one to know about this. As much as they pissed me the fuck off sometimes, they're still my brothers, and we went through what we went through together.”

This time it was a sigh as he rubbed his temple in still-growing annoyance. “It wasn't your place to tell them for me.”

“Then why tell me? Why am I so special?”

“Because your mother was tired of the bad blood between the three of us. And there are certain things that _I've_ grown tired of lying about.”

 _Tired._ The word, and the way the Spy spoke it, conjured up the image from merely a week past—the first time he had actually laid eyes upon the man's true face. There was a bizarre dissonance between the faceless killer and the vulnerability he showed in revealing himself. The toll his lifestyle had taken on him was so utterly obvious, burned right into his skin.

It would have been almost easy to hate him otherwise. To let feelings of abandonment, that he had chosen his work over the children he'd fathered, win out. But then he would remember that tired face and the warmth in his mother's voice when she talked about him, and—

God, he was so glad there was no one to talk to about this anyway. He felt like such a pussy just thinking about it.

No more than a minute of silence transpired, but breaking it felt awkward all the same. “Well, now y'don't have to tell them. An' they weren't mad, either, y'know. Danny said he could remember you bein' around til he was six or seven at _least_.”

The silence persisted, and he attempted a small smile though the Frenchman was refusing to look at him at this point. “Hey, they're all pretty busy with their lives right now anyway. It can wait 'til Thanksgiving dinner. Don't sweat it.”  
  
A small pang of nervousness hit him in the chest when the Spy finally smirked at him once again. “You're sounding familiar again, you know. One of you was bound to take after her in that way, I suppose.”

He couldn't help smiling back, embarrassed, as a certain General Sprinkles scrambled back into his lap. Time to change the subject.

“So, you beat the shit outta the pissfreak, huh? Do I get to hear that story?”

The chuckle he got in response grew his smile twofold.

“Oh, with _pleasure_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for story notes.

The first time the three of them crossed paths, he had written it off as simple battlefield animosity.

It had been a sweltering day at the Teufort base, a location the teams had not been assigned to for quite some time. The Spy found himself wishing that pattern had persisted; that particular battlefield always saw to it that he became covered in runoff drainage water and hay on top of the already expected blood and sweat. With the day drawing to a close, he was laying low just outside of the BLU's intelligence room as the fight appeared to be soon ending in a stalemate.

That is until a certain comrade came wheeling around the corner, his expression lighting up at the sight of his teammate.

“ _Oh, thank God someone on this team isn't a complete moron,” he whispered harshly, or at least in what could pass as a whisper for the Scout. “Look—we got 'bout two minutes left to get a point in the bag and wrap this up. Wanna go in there and start some trouble?”_

_The Spy regarded him skeptically. “Or we could simply let the time run out and wash our hands of this place for the day, without ending up on fire needlessly.”_

“ _C'mon, man.” The younger man's eyes were almost pleading, if still far too cocky. “My numbers're down this week. Help me out and I'll owe you one.”_

_He sighed, shaking his head. “And what's the brilliant plan? You are aware, as I am, that their Pyro and Engineer are going to brutalize us if they so much as see a shadow in the doorway.”_

“ _That's why we pull a feint,” the Scout grinned, gesturing with his scattergun toward the room behind them. “I'll pull the Pyro away from his boyfriend over there, and you run in and wreck his buildings. Grab the intel, and if y'can so much as move it away from that room, I can take care of the rest.”_

That was _not_ how the plan had gone, unsurprisingly, and the assassin was kicking himself in the head for ever listening to one of Scout's plans as he zigzagged through the RED base to claim victory with his prize. Sure, he had gotten the intel, but that was where the success ended. The Pyro had absolutely immolated the Scout and then turned on him, the singes on his suit left as evidence of the altercation. Had their Soldier not intervened, the briefcase would have been left sitting in the BLU's hayloft as the battle closed.

As he swept through the winding corridor toward the intel room of the RED base, the Scout was right back at his side—freshly returned from death's doorstep.

“C'mon, let me have it back. I was the one who needed the point y'know,” the runner whined, making to grab the briefcase before a lewd remark was thrown right back his way.

“I _died_ so you could get that,” he tried once again, a phony pout on his face. “Please? _Pleaaaseee?_ ”

The Frenchman sighed, his annoyance with the other man far outweighing any kind of pity he could possibly have for him. He handed the briefcase over as they approached the intel room together—and nearly collided with BLU's Scout as he entered it.

He had their own briefcase in tow, though the Spy could barely even remember hearing its theft being announced as he had been running through the noise of the battlefield. The other man seemed surprised, preparing to fire out of instinct, but the announcement that BLU's intelligence had been captured rang out before either of them had time to react. His expression was merely sheepish as he slowly lowered his weapon.

“Holy _shit, pal,_ you are my _hero_ for the day!” came the voice from the intel room, followed by the emergence of his teammate. “I owe ya, for real. We're _so_ gettin' a drink after work on me. And I'll pay this time, _honest_.”

The Spy merely rolled his eyes as his team's Scout ran past, presumably to cause hell for the remaining BLUs out on the battlefield. He assumed he had left the enemy Scout for him to deal with, but he kept his revolver resting at his side as he turned to glance back at his son leaning against the wall in quiet defeat. He felt compelled to make a remark as to the utter idiocy of his teammate, but he noticed the bitter frown and thought better of it.

“Hey, if y'aren't gonna shoot me, I gotta get back to my fellow losers,” he remarked harshly, brushing past without so much as a look back. “They're gonna be _real_ happy with me.”

* * *

The second time it happened, however, he discovered exactly what was going on.

It was two days later, on the very same territory, that the three of them ran into each other once again. Tensions were high as the two groups of mercenaries spent far more time at the unpleasant Teufort base than any of them could happily tolerate. The amenities and space were inferior to some of the other locations they had been stationed at recently, and rivalries were intensified by a desire to definitively end the standoff.

That was when he ran into the two Scouts butting heads once again. The RED Scout was dogging his enemy counterpart as the BLU runner fled with the red briefcase, throwing insults after him as the other man evaded his shots. Carefully putting his personal feelings aside, the Spy emerged from the adjacent hallway and landed a clean shot on the BLU's chest.

His teammate smirked as his rival hit the dirt, red blossoming on the blue uniform. It wasn't enough to kill him instantly, but another shot certainly would be.  
  
“Hey, thanks for the hand— _not that I needed it,_ ” the Scout called out to his comrade, adding the last part more quietly. He paused as his headset chattered, announcing that their own team had dropped the BLU's intelligence, presumably their Medic and Heavy brought down by the enemy Sniper or Spy. To his credit, the Scout did know when duty called over vendettas.

“You take 'em then,” the RED Scout sighed, already in a dash toward the battlefield. “I kinda think revenge is best served by a guy who's doin' his Ma, y'know?”

The Spy felt a twist in his own gut at the comment, but judging from the expression on the enemy Scout's face, he took it a lot worse.

His breathing was quick and stilted from the shot to his chest, but he still managed to glare angrily at the older man. “Y'just let 'em _say_ shit like that?”

Close to openly embarrassed at his teammate's behavior, the Frenchman forced a shrug. “And what do you propose I do about it? One teammate knowing my personal life is more than enough.”

The BLU growled in response. “I _hate_ that guy. Fuckin' hate him. He talks a lot of shit for someone all hung up on a chick who don't even look at him when he opens his big fuckin' mouth. And _you're_ fuckin' _buddies_ with him.”

Taken slightly aback by the accusation, the Spy couldn't help the snorting laughter that came from him. “ _What in the_ _world_ gave you that impression? No, I'm asking—because whatever it is, I'd see it brought to an end before anyone else believes that.”

“He's always _hangin' around you_ ,” the Scout replied, fiddling with his headset angrily. “It—ah...kind of pisses me off, I guess.”

Oh, for the love of God. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“What, you—are _jealous_ of him?” The Spy made sure to say it softly, lest it be picked up by undesired ears. He wanted to be sure any cameras on them thought they were having a not so friendly conversation. “You can't be serious.”

He sighed, the blood still spreading on his chest somehow making the Spy feel unclean about the whole situation. “Yeah, things do look kinda different when a guy y'thought you'd never meet suddenly happens to be someone you're seein' _all the time._ It's like the childhood I'd _wished_ I had.”

The BLU chuckled as he said it, some of the hostility gone. It figured—the boy never seemed to stay mad for very long about these things.

“Well, finish the job, will ya? I'm not goin' anywhere like this, and you're the one always goin' on about keepin' up appearances.” He had a good-natured smirk on his face, for once more similar to his father than mother.

As the Spy raised his revolver, that smirk was mirrored back at him as the bullet found its mark.

* * *

The bar was nearly empty as the two men nursed their drinks, only a soft jazz tune filling the silence as it drifted over from the nearby radio.

“You know, your mother says you didn't visit her last week.” The smooth accent came from the older man, the one the bartender kept a close eye on. “I suspect she wanted to get us all at the table together.”

“Eh, I don't know how ready for that I am,” the younger man chuckled. “Not until we're done with all this. Can't be sittin' down to dinner with guys you shoot at.”

“Tch. _Amateur_.”

“Didn't I tell'ya to speak _English_ to me, please?”

The masked man smirked at this, drawing a twenty from his wallet. Far more than enough for the both of them plus a generous tip. The Scout frowned as his father stood.

“I said I'd pay. Put that away, c'mon.”

One eyebrow raised, evident even behind the balaclava. “Don't _command_ me, Ricky. I—”

He stopped cold, clearly shocked at his own slip. No names, never any names. Not in public—not until it was all over. Just as his son had said moments ago.

The Spy was relieved when he was saved by the breaking of the silence.

“So, same time next week?”

He smiled, though his back was to the other man and his voice calm and unaffected.

“Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Scout's number of brothers here is not a mistake. I interpret the official bio as RED Scout's, thus he is the youngest of eight. I gave the two Scouts different families to help define them as not unrealistically identical, game mechanics notwithstanding.)

The bartender must have grown accustomed to their presence there, the Scout guessed. It could be expected that they would find a time to meet at least every other week, if not in a strictly consistent fashion. Working for opposing companies, it had been instilled in him by the older man that they handle their relationship to each other in the most discreet way possible. At times it seemed the only evidence such a relationship even existed at all was the slight chuckle, barely warm at the edges, as a knife dug into his guts.

Still, he was true to his word all the same and when he said he would be there, indeed he was. The bar was unfailingly empty at the late hours they kept. Much of the time would pass in looming silences—the Scout had never in his life kept his mouth shut for as long as he found himself now.

Most of all, he could hardly believe that the proud attitude he had so recently loathed in the Frenchman now left him feeling judged and inadequate. From experience he already knew that the Spy's skill in battle could not be denied. The hardest part was reconciling what he now knew with the precious few secondhand stories from his mother and preconceived notions from his own fatherless childhood.

But tonight, he had decided, would not pass in the same silence. The young man glanced up from his near-empty drink to examine his father beside him. The Spy smirked when he noticed the prolonged gaze, bringing the cigarette away from his lips.

And still he said nothing.

“Oh, c'mon!” the Scout snapped, smacking a palm down on the bar counter. “We've been meetin' up like this for like—a _month_ now, and I don't know a damn thing more about you than I did before. Well, I ain't gonna sit and be quiet this time.”

The other mercenary raised an eyebrow, seemingly both amused and perturbed. The Scout wasn't quite sure which it was, but it made him that much more unsettled.

“I don't make a habit of disclosing information, least of all unsolicited.” He shrugged, adjusting his fedora to better hide his face. “In other words: you've never _asked_ me anything, either.”

“I—well. I dunno where I'd even _start_.” The BLU runner finished off his drink with a thoughtful frown, his tone less confident now. “Fact is, we hardly know each other.”

“I know _much_ more about you than you would think,” the Spy spoke calmly, tapping his glass with his fingernail.

That slight tell of discomfort struck the Scout as more troubling than any show of confidence the man could have displayed.

“Yeah, but you weren't _there,_ ” he finally replied. “I don't know _you_.”

A barely detectable furrow in the other man's forehead, and the Scout immediately regretted the way he had phrased it. He recalled his mother's insistent voice on the phone weeks prior. His father was far softer toward her—toward their family—than he would ever let on.

Pride was one of the only things in the life of Renard Fontaine that he had maintained, and he had humbled himself so much as to come clean about this. And moreover, to show remorse.

The Scout sighed.

“I didn't mean it that way. Y'know I don't, okay? I mean y'can't know me like Ma does. We got a lot of time to make up for, but I don't mind it.”

The Spy chuckled, though it was without any heartfelt humor. “Bonding at gunpoint, I suppose?”

“I'll let it slide. Brothers kicked my ass enough times that it don't bother me _that_ much.”

This time the smile was genuine. That was good, because seeing the Spy looking anything but smug just didn't feel right to him. He remembered with a feeling of amusement that his mother had said the same thing about the man.

“I _did_ have something I wanted to say, y'know. For serious.”

“Oh?”

The Scout nodded, stealing a glance at the back room. The bartender had taken to holing up with his television there when the two of them pulled late nights like this. The handsome tips they left must have been enough motivation to keep the lights on, he supposed.

But he still liked to make sure no one was listening to him.

“Yeah, well...y'see...” He paused, eyes flitting to the side briefly. “I do remember. That we've met before. I remember when I was a kid—”

“You _remember_ that?”

The younger man raised his eyes to see the Spy watching him impassively, denying the surprise his voice had shown. He smiled back at the composed expression.

“I do. There was somethin' weird about it, y'know? I can't remember ever seein' my Ma sittin' with someone like that, talkin' like that. I saw your face that night—it's kinda funny, 'cause I remember being weirded out more than anything.”

The corner of the other man's lips had pulled into a smile. He was still stuck on smiling himself, and he couldn't quite place why.

“But then when you ran into me on the field, I knew it was familiar. Couldn't place where, but when I found about the two of you, well, bein' together and all—and how _weird_ it was for Ma to just suddenly have a new guy after how crazy she always was for my dad.”

He stopped for a moment. He always talked way too fast when he got going about something. She would often get annoyed with him for that reason, he thought, and it made him smile again.

“Didn't make sense, but I was pissed anyway, 'cause that's my _Ma_. But it made it kinda harder to deny, too, once she told me that you were who y'said ya are.”

The Scout adjusted his hat, agitated again by the silence. The Spy merely smirked again, cryptic as always, as he finished his own drink. He always drank very little when they met up like this, the runner had noticed, and he wondered if he had made a habit of avoiding any kind of impairment that could reduce his effectiveness. Clever, he noted.

“If I may, then, make a confession of my own?”

Some wariness came into his expression at the tone, but he nodded without too much hesitation. “Hey, 'course. Fair's fair.”

He brought his hands together, somewhat dramatic, and seemed amused at the edginess the Scout reacted with. “It's my fault that you are here, really.”

The Scout rested his head on his palm, grinning slyly himself. “Hm, I _can_ believe that y'know. No way it was a coincidence. I mean, I ain't _book_ smart, but I got _some_ common sense.”

“Not _entirely_ my fault,” the Spy quickly revised with a small flourish of his hand. “Your mother had already wanted to come with me when I signed on for this job. Four of our sons already had moved out, on their way, and you were soon to follow.”

The smile on the Scout's face grew. “ _Annnd?_ ”

“ _And_ she wanted you to join me. I wasn't particularly fond of the idea of keeping an eye on you, admittedly, but she seemed to believe I could do exactly that.” An arrogant smirk challenged the somewhat indignant look on the boy's face. “In short, I pulled what strings I could, got your name to the top of some lists. Trifling, really. The only part I wasn't expecting was for them to hire you on the _other_ side.”

“It's a bitch, ain't it?” the younger man chuckled, shrugging. “But I'm happy about it. Can't have someone treatin' me like a kid. Had plenty of that, bein' youngest.”

The Spy allowed a good-natured half smile, but his eyes were quickly on his watch. Five hours until they were due back at the front lines, the Scout thought, glancing at the clock in the bar's reflection.

“If you'd permit this conversation to continue later, I suggest we get at least a _few_ hours of sleep.” Before the BLU mercenary had even enough time to reach into his pocket, yet another crisp twenty sat on the counter. He frowned, but he only received a familiar chuckle as the man adjusted the fedora once more.

And it occurred to him then, as his mind raced at the thought of another week ahead of him, that a half an hour went by much faster when it wasn't in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

His nerves were considerably calmer this time as the vehicle raced down the desert road, the young man riding shotgun—much calmer, in fact, than the last time they had shared this ride—before he had come clean about _that_.

Bizarre, really, the Spy supposed, that making his identity known to his own son had felt more like a nagging chore than anything. But then again, his lifestyle as a whole was utterly absurd to begin with, and much like a chore it was a task that only grew more inevitable the longer he put it off. He had known for a long time that there would come a point that concealing it would become more of a bother than simply resolving it—a messy resolution, but closure nonetheless.

“So, no drinks tonight then?” the Scout nudged him from his silence, the tone in his voice one of very slight anxiety. “They ain't on to us, right?”

His brief reverie broken, the older man abruptly shook his head. “Oh, no—no. Nothing like that. Miss Pauling owes me a few favors. I don't expect blackmail is in my near future.”

“Oh. Can I borrow a couple of those favors?”

The Frenchman rolled his eyes. “My guess is that they are non-transferable.”

“Kiddin', kiddin'!” The Scout shrugged, grinning. “Gave up on that a long time ago. I think that other guy is barkin' up the wrong tree, if y'ask me.”

“What, our Scout?” An amused snort accompanied the question. “Oh, believe me, I've heard all about it. _Over and over—_ and yes, you are correct about that.”

“Well _—_ ” The BLU stopped short, causing the Spy to glance over at him. He was reaching under the seat mischievously, clearly bored with even the short drive back from the war zone. Obviously he had found something, but the man beside him knew exactly what it was, and it wasn't quite worth the effort of scolding him.

“ _Hey,_ got some classified RED secrets in here?” The Scout was running his fingers over the gunmetal-colored briefcase he had found, clearly impressed with himself. The older man considered the fact that the runner was only holding it with his tacit permission and merely smirked.

“Not currently,” he replied smoothly, his eyes drifting back to the endless road.

Undaunted, the Scout clicked open the case. The sound of his disappointed sigh revealed the results of his search, and the Spy's smirk turned to a quiet chuckle. As it was, the case only contained his personal stash of cigarettes. They weren't always easy to come by in the middle of the desert during the long work week, and he simply refused to be without at least that one luxury.

“See? You know I wouldn't lie to you.”

Another groan from the younger man, one he assumed was more juvenile annoyance at not discovering something of interest—but then he glanced a certain weapon in his hands.

Oh, of course. He hadn't even considered that he kept _that_ in there too. The presence of weapons everywhere had left him somewhat indifferent to them, but this weapon was one he did happen to place quite a lot of value on.

“I _should_ give you a hard time about this, y'know,” the Scout sighed, examining the Ambassador that he held gingerly in his hand. He was awkward with the revolver, clearly accustomed to less elegant firearms. “Does Ma even know about it?”

The Spy chuckled again, causing the runner to raise an eyebrow. “She is _quite_ fond of it, as a matter of fact.”

“Hm.” Returning it to the case, the Scout sounded unimpressed.

“It's not what you think, you know.”

The fleeting sincerity he had allowed himself to speak with irked him—he couldn't look back at his son as he felt him glancing over with a much less bitter gaze.

“I know. Just—still gettin' used to seein'ya as somethin' other than an asshole—no offense.” He added the last part hastily, as though slightly regretting the harshness of the accusation.

“Oh, I know. Believe me.” The Spy flexed his grip on the wheel, adding more quietly, “I've heard the same thing from an acquaintance not too long ago. It's a difficult title to lose, I can see.”

The other man was silent for a few moments, focusing evasively on the case in his lap. His usual demeanor of overblown confidence seemed to soften out during the brief times they would spend alone together, and the Spy felt almost flattered by this fact.

“I don't think it's so hard to believe. Just have to squint a little, maybe.”

He had no reply for this, but each second of silence was one of solidarity between father and son. Maybe that was enough for now, he mused.

“So why no drinks tonight, then?” the Scout chided again. “You that popular of a guy?”

Returning to his lofty arrogance, the Frenchman merely smirked. Back to that safe rapport they had established, one where they could both feel comfortable in their element. “We worked through last weekend, if you'll recall.”

“Yeah, _and?_ ”

“And there happens to be someone else I've been hoping to spend the night with, if you understand my meaning.” The RED mercenary only smiled more as a faint expression of disgust reappeared on the runner's face.

“Y'do that on purpose to me. I _know_ y'do.” The Scout had pulled his hat down lower, hiding the very faint redness. “Don't think I can't still hate that.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze still stubbornly directed out at the road that rushed past the window.

“...But tell Ma I said 'hey', all right?”


End file.
